


The cure

by paintingraves (kallistob)



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Curse Breaking, Curses, Enthusiastic Consent, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, anyway fellas Graves is still hot uh, well sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:01:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27192109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kallistob/pseuds/paintingraves
Summary: Newt has been cursed by a criminal with a peculiar sense of humor, and his only way out is to ask for Percival Graves' help.It works out much better than he ever expected.
Relationships: Original Percival Graves/Newt Scamander
Comments: 6
Kudos: 210





	The cure

**Author's Note:**

> aaah yes. i haven't posted a fic in forever !! hello old fandom !!!!!! SO NICE TO BE HERE AGAIN !!!!! i hope you guys enjoy this ! :D

Cursed.

He had been cursed. 

Newt really should learn to stop sticking his nose where it doesn't belong, and also that poacher he'd met had a really perverse and fucked up sense of humor. When he thought about his current predicament he felt quite humiliated, embarrassed, and derivations of the same sentiment. 

He was also in pain. Not physical pain, but mental chagrin. Because try as he might (and he had tried, many many times) he just _couldn't_ reach out and take a hold of his precious suitcase. That was his curse. At first glance it made for a rather comical scene to witness - a man running after an inanimate object with growing frustration - but the situation was becoming dire. Newt needed to care for his creatures daily, they were dependent on him for food and drink and medical care, and he couldn't do that if the suitcase remained stubbornly out of his reach every time he stepped close, as though mocking him for his efforts. 

After a couple hours of struggle, Newt conceded: it seemed he had no choice but to comply with the terms of the curse lest his creatures starve to death. Which meant he had to request a private audience with the Director of Magical Security of the MACUSA, Percival Graves. 

A disenchanting perspective. That man was _very_ intimidating. And given the importance of his position, even if Newt’s call for a one-on-one meeting was accepted, he probably wouldn’t be able to see the Director for weeks if not months. Newt didn't have months. He had three days at the most. He needed to see Mr Graves now. 

Theseus, Newt's brother, was friends with Percival and would help if Newt were to simply ask, but he would also want to know _why_ this matter was so urgent, and Newt categorically refused to tell him. Really, nothing short of torture would make say the terms of the curse out loud to an outside party -- especially _not_ his own kin. Bloody hell, it was bad enough to know he would have to ask Mr Graves for… _well_. _For that_. 

Newt sighed loudly, hanging his head in defeat. He could handle this in a mature way. He just hoped Mr Graves wouldn't curse him into oblivion once he said the words. Bugger. Back to square one, then: his best hope was to pen a letter to Director Graves, appealing to his better nature (after all, Newt _had_ been the one to uncover Grindelwald's plot and rescue the man from certain death, hadn’t he?) and sending it directly to him. With a bit of luck, and if Graves had not warded his home or office with a hundred different protection spells against strange missives, Newt’s message would reach him.

There was no other solution. Newt glared at his rebellious suitcase one last time for good measure, sat down with quill, ink and parchment at the desk of his hotel room and wrote the letter. He tied it to Regis' leg - a crow familiar Newt had found, rescued and healed a year ago, which now refused to leave his side - and sent the bird flying out the window, direction: New York. 

Now to wait. 

He trusted Graves to understand the gravity of his words and agree to receive him at once, tonight if at all possible, tomorrow morning at the latest. He could send him back a portkey or a floo address, for example. It was a good thing the magizoologist was currently in Brazil and not on the other side of the ocean in England - that would have made things significantly more complicated. _Small blessings._

Newt paced for a good hour, getting increasingly anxious; he ignored the hunger pangs he felt and tried to take a nap, then read, then took a shower just for the hell of it, then waited some more, staring out the open window for a sign. After three hours, and just as he was about to give it up as a lost cause and call it a day, a large eagle owl he didn't know suddenly flew straight into his hotel room with a rolled up letter tied to its leg, bearing the official seal of the MACUSA. Newt whooped in relief. He skimmed the paper (the owl hooting happily when it received treats for its hard work) and, as he reached the last line, he felt a familiar tug somewhere in his navel. "Oh, _no,"_ he said, his stomach dropping, right before Graves’ portkey sent him hurtling through time and space. 

**

Newt landed inelegantly on his hands and knees in a dark room he could recognize as Graves’ office, feeling nauseous. A pair of designer black boots entered his vision, and he looked up to see a helping hand. Graves pulled him to his feet and steadied him while Newt assured him he was feeling quite alright, thank you, just a bit dizzy was all, and Graves invited him to sit down and offered him a glass of water. 

Newt took in his surroundings as his breathing deepened and slowed. The door to Graves' office had been left ajar, yet he could hear none of the ordinary bustle and hubbub of the Aurors' pen. A variety of magical instruments and trophies were displayed in the high glass cabinets lining the walls of the room, and a modern, tall floor lamp bathed the room in a warm glow. Graves sat behind his mahogany desk, fingers steepled under his chin as he looked at Newt expectantly. His work station had been cleaned, paperwork and ink put away for the day. 

A quick glance at the clock informed Newt that it was almost 11 o'clock at night here in the United States. It was no surprise that the Director worked so late when all his colleagues had to have gone home, but Newt felt guilty at the thought that he was clearly the one now preventing Graves from leaving the office after a long and hard day of work. 

Graves cleared his throat, and leaned over with his elbows on the table. "Mr Scamander, I apologize again for the portkey," he began, his voice low. He sounded tired. "It was the quickest solution. I understood this was rather urgent…? As I do owe you a debt, I promise I will do everything in my power to help you." 

Newt nodded and folded his hands on his lap. There was no tiptoeing around it. He swallowed, his throat dry. “Thank you. To put things simply, I recently rescued some creatures from poachers and one of them… Well, one of the men cursed me in retaliation.” 

Graves frowned. “I see. Do you need help to find this man?” 

“No, no, that won’t be necessary, but I appreciate it. He must be long gone by now, and the curse isn’t dependent on - on him. No, I’m afraid the terms are…” Newt felt his face heat. “Rather more, _erm_. Straightforward?” 

“Are they? Well, nothing you say will shock me, Mr. Scamander.” Graves’ eyes were dark, warm, his expression open and encouraging. He even smiled a little. "What are the curse's effects?" 

"My suitcase shall remain stubbornly out of reach," Newt recited, frustration palpable in his voice, "Until… _Ahem._ Unless…" 

Graves waited patiently. 

"Until… Oh, bugger it all, I'm so sorry --” and then Newt just dove right in, his heart hammering in his chest, blood rushing to his face -- “He _said_ I wouldn’t know peace until Percival Graves fucked me. His words, sir - I, I’m so sorry,” he added, utterly mortified. He knew it would be bad to say it out loud, but _God_. It was even worse than he'd imagined. There was a good chance that Graves would take offence and throw him out. 

A tense moment of silence followed the declaration. 

Newt didn’t dare look at Graves. He could only imagine the expression on his face - somewhere between _I beg your pardon_ and _is this a joke?!_ But if he was shocked, Percival hid it well. 

“How... creative,” the older man finally commented, his tone cold and disapproving. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry too, Mr. Scamander. I imagine it must have been quite stressful for you not to be able to care for your creatures." 

“Yes - yes!" Newt exclaimed, relieved that Graves understood the gravity of the matter right away. "I’m… I really am sorry to put you in this position as well,” he added miserably, shuffling his feet. 

There were three ways to deal with a curse : find a curse breaker (costly and time-consuming), hope that the person who cast the curse would lift it (a bit hopeless in Newt's situation), wait for the curse to fade naturally (a matter of a few days, time which Newt, as we've previously established, did _not_ have) or… Do what the curse wanted. 

Graves hummed. “It's alright. But something must be done. First, I promise you that when this is over, I will give orders to track and arrest this man,” he said, standing up from behind his desk and putting his hands in his pockets. Newt prepared to be dismissed, his heart in his throat - did Graves even believe him? It seemed like he did, and he had not reacted as badly as he could have, but there was a new edge to his voice. He was suddenly all business and brisk efficiency. “You’ll provide me with his physical description, name, last location, anything to help identify him. Unless you object to that?” He raised an eyebrow. 

To be honest, Newt hadn’t thought that far, too preoccupied with his creatures’ fate, but he indeed felt quite sore about the whole thing: making sure the poacher and his acolytes spent a good chunk of their lives in prison for their crimes was a brilliant idea. He’d take Graves up on that offer... 

And then his brain skidded to a halt, because Graves was unbuckling and taking off his belt. 

Newt opened his mouth in shock. "Err," he said. 

Percival looked at him expectantly, in the process of rolling his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, exposing strong forearms dusted in dark hair. “Now, I know the curse can be broken through other means, but there are worse ordeals to go through, Mr. Scamander. As it stands, it will be no hardship to help you and in doing so, repay my debt.”

Newt gawked at him. Graves was _serious_. He was actually offering to… 

To fuck the curse away, as intended. 

"Oh," he said, his heart skipping several beats, his blood suddenly rushing south. " _Oh_."

His cock throbbed in time with his pulse, and it was suddenly all he could focus on. The sweet warmth of arousal settled low in his gut as Percival rounded the desk with focused intent. _"_ Oh _,_ dear,” Newt repeated, and fumbled with his suspenders before shoving his own pants and underwear down. He lifted the hem of his shirt and bent over the desk as Graves came up behind him, bracing himself on his elbows and biting his lips nervously in anticipation. Merlin, this was really happening. 

Percival murmured something, and Newt gasped at the sudden sensation of cold slickness inside his ass and sliding down his inner thighs. A useful, well-known spell, but associated with the persona of _Percival Graves,_ Newt found it became ten times hotter. 

He shivered bodily as a warm hand took hold of his hip. Graves gently circled his rim with a finger (Newt stopped breathing) before sliding it inside him, progressing quickly to two. He scissored them, stretching Newt in preparation to take his cock. He was utterly silent, his fingers skilled and unrelenting in slowly but surely driving Newt up the wall. "Nngh - _fuck_ , ah," he panted as he started to fuck himself on the man’s hand. Percival stopped immediately. “S - soorry?" Newt slurred, flushing all over. “It’s, uh - it’s been a while…?" 

“It’s okay,” Percival said. He didn’t even sound affected, the bastard. “I’m putting it inside now.” And he slowly slid home all the way, and oh, _oh_ , god -- Newt raked his nails on the desk as the Director gave three vigorous thrusts then paused again. “Do you believe that is enough?” He asked, his voice even as if he didn’t have his entire cock shoved up Newt’s ass. 

Newt struggled to put two thoughts together. “I, ah, don’t think so,” he said breathlessly. “The man - the man said, erm, _well-fucked_ , precisely, so...” 

“Ah, I see. Very well,” Percival said, and got on with fucking him methodically at a drumbeat pace, steady, hard thrusts that sparked every nerve inside Newt’s body to life. He hung on for dear life, biting on his knuckles at one point to avoid screaming when Graves shifted minutely and hit that particular spot inside him. Little desperate noises of bone-deep pleasure kept escaping him, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He was pretty sure he was drooling. 

Percival curled a hand in the sweaty hair at the nape of Newt’s neck, sending shivers down his spine. He leaned into the loving touch and turned his head, risking a glance behind him. Percival’s eyes were dark with desire, his hair falling into his face, his cold composure cracking. "Fuck, right there - yeah," Newt strangled out, and Percival grunted and went faster, _harder_. Newt whimpered helplessly, his shirt clinging to his back with sweat, his cock rock hard and leaking. One touch and he'd be done for. "Please, sir ---" 

Percival gasped, his rhythm faltering, and he dug his fingers hard into Newt’s hips as he bottomed out one last time, grinding his cock inside Newt as he came with a muttered curse, leaning his weight on Newt’s back. 

Newt smiled stupidly as Percival came down from his high, breathing hard. Graves stroked a hand down Newt’s back, to where they were still joined, and then pulled out. 

“T - thank you,” Newt croaked, wrecked. 

His legs were shaking. His head was spinning. He was still hard, and he wanted nothing more than to curl a hand around his cock, but he didn’t know if Percival’s generosity extended to Newt coming all over his important paperwork. He forced himself to take several deep breaths in an effort to calm his racing heart. His whole body was on fire. He'd been so _close_.

“You will let me know if that was enough to break the curse,” Percival rasped behind him. Newt nodded, and turned around to lie on his back on the desk, making peace with the fact that he would have to go home in this state and jerk off. He blinked and took a deep breath. 

The next thing he knew, Graves was between his legs and taking his cock in his mouth. The man moaned as he started to suck him off, and Newt, who had stopped expecting anything, cried out in utter shock. The renewed spike of pleasure was like a punch to the gut. He lost control of himself, starting to babble utter nonsense as he grabbed fistfuls of Percival’s hair while the man gave him a remarkable blow job with single-minded efficiency until Newt threw his head back; his legs shook as the heat crested, spreading to his whole body, wave after wave of white warmth that left him utterly boneless. Afterwards, trembling through the aftershocks, he stared at the ceiling wondering in a daze what the _hell_ had just happened. 

Percival wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He'd swallowed. 

Newt groaned and hid his face between his hands. 

"Jesus Christ, Graves. _Bloody hell._ Give a man a warning next time, would you?!" 

Graves laughed softly. The Director was fixing his appearance, buttoning his pants again, tucking his shirt in, adjusting his collar and smoothing down his hair. Newt sat up on the desk slowly, muttered a cleaning charm, and imitated him. 

He had… no idea what to do or how to behave now. His mind was still floating, and he felt extremely tired. He knew he needed to take another portkey back to Brazil, tend to his creatures... But he just wanted to curl up and sleep. Preferably in Graves' arms. 

Graves rounded his desk again and started tidying things up - putting back in their rightful place the papers and pot of ink Newt had had to push aside once he understood the other man really did intend to plough him. 

“Mr Scamander. Please do not hesitate to tell me if you need my help again,” Graves called. He looked perfectly level-headed again, although a bit softer around the edges, a bit more… Relaxed. 

Newt nodded and smiled at him, suddenly feeling a bit shy. "I will. And same for you, if you need my help…" He trailed off. Graves nodded. "I can't tell you how grateful I am." And he really was, now that the weight of the curse had been lifted. "Please call me Newt. Sorry again. I'll be out of your air now, enjoy your evening." 

"It's fine." Graves sat down on his office chair and smiled at him, eyes crinkling attractively in the corners. "I... enjoyed this. Immensely." 

"Me too," Newt blurted out. "In case you, you know. Couldn't tell by the moaning and… yeah." 

Graves chuckled. Newt's heart skipped a beat. _Dangerous territory._ He retreated. "Hmm, do you have anything I could use as portkey…?" 

"Right." Graves handed him a round paperweight. "Have a good day, Mr. Scamander." 

"Please call me Newt. Err, thank you. And have… have a good night yourself. It's late. Sleep well." 

"You too," Graves said. 

"Okay. Well." Newt took the paperweight in his hand. "Goodbye." He waved awkwardly. 

"Goodbye, Newt." 

Newt blushed again. The uncomfortable tugging of the portkey as it activated and took him away was almost a blessing. 

_Dangerous territory._

And yet… 

Would Graves be amenable to a cup of coffee the next time Newt passed by New York ? 

Definitely something to think about. 

That night, Newt took care of his creatures (comforting them all after his unusual absence until they stopped sulking) and then went to sleep with a big smile on his lips. He felt quite content. 

  
  
  



End file.
